Appetence
by VioletSm0ak
Summary: Red Robin stumbles into a spot of supernatural trouble. He doesn't expect to be saved by Jason Todd, miraculously alive five years after his death and now with the inexplicable ability to commune with the dead. Meanwhile, when Jason returned to Gotham he meant to keep a low profile and not get involved with Bat business. That was before he found out how hot his Replacement is. AU


**Disclaimer: **This story uses characters, situations and premises that are copyright DC Comics, Inc. No infringement pertaining to graphic novels, television series or films is intended by violetsmoak in any way, shape or form. This fan-oriented story is written solely for the author's own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

**Canon-Compliance:** Alternate Universe; Jason still died, but was not found by Talia when he was resurrected. All other events mostly follow the same chronology as New Earth continuity, with mentions made to events in New 52

**Beta Reader:** I'll get back to you on that.

**Author's Note(s):** My attention span was really terrible today and I couldn't focus on either of my two other fics even though the next chapters of both are completely planned out. So I'm posting the start of the third (and final) story that I'm doing for the JayTimWeek/Month challenge.

Also, I'm really excited about this one. I spent more time planning this than either of the other two and I can't wait to hear what you guys think!

* * *

The Bat-Signal cuts through the dark and hazy clouds lingering above Gotham City, and for a split-second, Jason Todd has the urge to drop everything and race for the roof of the GCPD Headquarters. It's hard to ignore the nervous jump of excitement in his stomach, the phantom sensation of a domino mask on his face and the heavy drag of a cape at his shoulders.

Which makes no sense, since it's been at least five years since I even wore that shit.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, the smoke mixing with the familiar summer smog, Jason turns his back on Gotham's literal beacon of hope and steels himself against nocturnal threats of his own. The city is for the caped crew—because apparently, the Bat has a posse now, he thinks with only a hint of a bitter sneer—and Jason has been fighting in a different arena for quite some time now.

He takes a final drag of the cigarette, and then grinds it beneath his boots, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. It's a weathered and worn thing that reminds him of one Willis Todd wore in one of the few memories Jason has of him that doesn't involve alcohol or fists. He thinks it's less pretentious looking than a trench coat and probably gives off fewer 'creepy motherfucker' vibes like the sartorial choices of certain other people. It's also less likely to snag on things when he needs to make a quick exit while digging up graves.

Which is a thing in his line of work.

Gotham Cemetery is a sprawling necropolis, as dark and forbidding now as it was the night Jason dug himself out of his own grave. Half a decade of Gotham-style tender, loving negligence has left the somber green hills overgrown and most of the old tombstones fallen or rotting.

You'd think in a city with the highest homicide rate in the country, the mayor would spring for better maintenance. Then again, it's Gotham. The dead don't pay taxes, so fuck 'em.

Which…enough said.

Gotham and the world think Jason Todd-Wayne is dead and has been for five years now; in a way, it's even true. He's no longer anything like the boy that was beaten to death by a psychotic clown, no longer the shrimp who fastidiously dyed his hair black and jumped into someone else's cape and pixie boots just so he didn't have to be his own screwup self anymore. He outgrew wanting to be Dick a long time ago, outgrew wanting to be Bruce, too, and embraced a whole new other set of skills to put him apart from them.

Most occultists and even mystics need to put conscious effort and intent into calling up or even seeing a spirit. Ever since Jason died and then mysteriously got better, the dead appear to him as blatantly and a solid as the living.

John told him he was a fool to come back here.

"Someone with your gifts, they'll drive you bloody mad," his mentor warned him when he left London. "And I ain't talking about the dead ones, neither."

"You're just saying that because Batman wouldn't hold your hand that one time," Jason retorted, shrugging off the concern. He is Gotham born and bred, his blood is in those streets, and he always wanted to come home, even if it wasn't necessarily to a stately manor or its inhabitants.

He clenches his fists.

Inhabitants that wasted no time in replacing him after he died. Jason was rotting away in fucking Arkham, and Bruce was shoving another kid into the tights.

If it didn't involve seeing him, I would hunt him down and break his jaw.

He surveys the graveyard proper. The everyday observer considers cemeteries to be places of peace and eternal rest; quiet, if a little bit spooky. To Jason, they're as gruesome as any major battlefield.

Spirits pack the way before him; some of them look relatively normal if dated by their clothes; many others are disfigured and bloody from whatever killed them, whether natural or unnatural. They clamor and crowd, eternally shouting to be heard, or screaming as they relive their deaths in their own personal purgatories.

In the beginning, that din almost drove Jason insane. Bruce's teachings kept him rational for a while in the months after he woke up, and then John's training helped him temper his own awareness further. By now, he can function almost normally, automatically filtering the voices out as he goes about his daily business. It's only in places like this, where the dead outnumber the living, where it's harder.

Jason reaches up, adjusting the noise filters in his ears—mechanical devices that need regular winding but are still more reliable than anything running on electricity of batteries. They resemble steampunk hearing aids, only instead of magnifying sound, they drown out the constant moan of the ghosts when he can't do it himself. Just one of many methods of protection he's learned over the years. Some are physical, like the prayer beads wrapped around his wrist or the bottle of holy water in his pocket; others—spells and symbols and mantras—are carved all over his body in tattoos and blood writing. Anything to keep the otherworld away.

"Personal space is a key to a medium's sanity," John told him once. "That and a good bottle of single malt scotch."

Jason ignores the moss-covered path that winds through the larger and more prominent mausoleums. He deliberately doesn't search out the one in the distance bearing the Wayne crest—

(Still remembers the feel of his fingernails splitting against the wood of the coffin, choking on clumps of soil and insects.)

—and instead seeks a small structure much farther away. It's in the furthest part of the cemetery, the shabby section almost hidden by overgrown willows. Half of the name above the doorway is obscured by vines, but it's easy for him to make out the name etched into the stone with bold letters.

HAYWOOD.

According to the public record, Sheila Haywood's body was returned to Gotham at the same time as Jason Todd's. Bruce paid for her funeral and internment, which was just as well since she had no other family, and then she was promptly forgotten about.

By everyone except Jason, it seems.

It took some doing and a few weeks tracking down everyone that had worked at the same refugee camp as his mother, but he'd finally managed to collect what possessions she left behind. A colleague of hers had put them aside when there appeared to be nothing of actual monetary value in them.

A gold coin, small bone carvings of stylized animals, dainty trinkets of cheap garnets, amber and lapis lazuli, a compact mirror, some seashells, a decorative fan, quartz paperweight, and a brightly colored feather. There was a picture of Willis in there, too, young and almost Jason's double. No picture of Jason, though, but he hadn't expected it.

He kept the picture but left the rest in the small wooden box, which he now removes from his messenger bag and sets down in front of the stone bearing his mother's name. He follows that with various tools and ingredients. Black candles arranged in a star shape around the box, a chalice, a jar of detritus—teff seeds, driftwood and soil, all from the place where she died—that he sprinkles around in a circle, a handful of smooth obsidian stones to mark a pentagram joining the candles, the dagger John gave him for his last birthday, vials of oil and holy water.

Murmuring a few protection oaths, he shrugs off his jacket, leaving his arms bare, and then digs out a pack of matches to light the candles; flickering shadows dance across the mausoleum walls. He takes up the chalice to combine the water and oil, and then reaches for the dagger.

Hate this part.

Training to function through pain doesn't mean it goes away, and he grits his teeth a little as he draws his blade across his forearm, not so deep as to nick anything vital, but enough that the blood runs easily into the chalice. Without bothering to bandage the wound, Jason holds up the chalice in front of him and centers himself.

"Phantasma inrequietum, te voco," he intones. "Eloguiorum mei audi: Sheila Haywood, te nominas!" The stagnant air in the mausoleum starts to pick up. "In nominee creatricis, te impero, hic locum decede." Hand over the top of the chalice, he swirls the liquid within, and then tips it into the open keepsake box. "Per sanguinem hominis et per sanguinem filii tui, non remane et apage! "He strikes a match and lobs it into the box, not even flinching as the whole thing flares into flame; he intends to watch it until it burns to nothing.

"That's not going to work, you know."

"Jesus fuck!" Jason explodes, whirling to the right and glaring at the interrupter. "What did I say about sneaking up on me? Or just—showing up around me in general?"

The apparition in front of him doesn't look impressed.

"If you want to keep going, by all means, but I'm not going anywhere."

Sheila is still beautiful—or, at least, the side of her body that isn't covered with third-degree burns and sections of pulverized bone—and still sharp. Cold, untouchable and self-interested.

But unlike the way she was before, she's all-too present in Jason's life now.

"Goddamn it," he snarls, and against every lesson John has ever given him, lashes out and knocks the candles and detritus hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. The air crackles in warning at the interrupted spell. "What the hell. I've done everything. You had last rites, your body was cremated, I just torched the things that had any value to you, why the hell won't you just move on?"

"You're asking the wrong questions," Sheila replies, as always.

Jason scowls. "And of course, you can't just tell me."

She gazes at him balefully, and he runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

"Sheila, we've been over this. You can't stay here. One, you know spirits that stick around past their time go Dark Side, and I really don't want to have to exorcise your spectral ass. Two, it's fucking creepy for a twenty-year-old guy to be followed around by his mother wherever he goes. What the hell is keeping you here? What more do you want from me?"

"Your forgiveness," she tells him patiently.

"I already forgave you. Years ago."

"You still call me Sheila."

"That's your name."

"I'm your mother."

"Who sold me out and got me murdered."

"See? You haven't forgiven me."

"I have. I'm just stating a fact, Jesus…"

"Apparently the cosmic balance doesn't agree enough to let me move on," the ghost says dryly. "And to think, I used to be an atheist."

"This is total bullshit," Jason snaps, grabbing his jacket and stalking out of the mausoleum in frustration.

Three years of this mediumship crap, and neither he nor John have ever been able to figure out why the ghost of Jason's dead biological mother won't stop haunting him. Wards and sutras that keep even the nastiest spirits away from Jason don't even phase her, and she's inexplicably coherent.

And persistent.

As Jason stalks back through the cemetery, he can sense her in his periphery, gliding along beside him, unconcerned with his irritation.

"Can you just…stay away from me? Like you did in the beginning?" he grumbles.

"You were just learning how to communicate without going insane. I wasn't about to disrupt that."

"How considerate of you."

"I try."

"Look, I've had enough of the ghost-stalker thing for today. I went out of my way for this, you know. I didn't even want to come back here. And now I'm back to the fucking drawing board."

"It may not have been a waste of a trip," she replies and vanishes.

"Oh, you can fuck off when it's convenient for you," he grumbles, though he already senses what she was speaking of.

Several yards away, a small boy, maybe eight, is clinging forlornly to an angel headstone. Translucent tears stream down his cheeks, but every now and again his face shifts, like a television caught between two channels, and his mouth widens into an unnatural smile.

Jason could have gone the rest of his life without seeing that smile again.

Still, he sighs and heads toward the kid.

"Hey," he says, keeping his voice low and maintaining a safe distance from the boy, whose head whips up to stare at Jason in sudden fear.

"Who are you?" he asks, voice thick with tears.

"I'm Jason. You okay, kid?"

"I can't find my mom," the boy murmurs, wiping at his face. "I keep going looking, but I forget the way home. And then…I always end up back here."

He sounds on the verge of tears again; it's something Jason can understand.

With the puzzling exception of Sheila, who appears to come and go as she pleases, most ghosts are stuck in certain patterns and paths when they die, frozen in an infinite loop until they break themselves out of it or until some arbitrary higher power decides they've suffered enough. And for some reason, Jason can break them out of it.

"You could always try again," he suggests. "I think you'll manage it this time."

The boy shudders. "There's scary people here."

No arguing with that.

"I know. I see them, too." Jason glances at the headstone, scanning the name and dates. "Your name's Cole?"

"Yeah."

"If you're missing, there are probably people looking for you. They might have posted something online about it. I'll check it out, but it could take a bit." He holds up his phone, glad to see it's at full charge and bars; that's hit or miss around so many ghosts. "Can you hang around here until I'm done?"

The boy nods, silent, face flicking back and forth between sadness and the unnatural smile.

Fucking Joker…

Jason does a quick search of the kid's name, pulling up obituaries in the Gotham Gazette in the past year. It doesn't take long for an article to pop up concerning the Joker's latest escape and a list of the dead.

He narrows his eyes, startling the kid.

"It's fine," he lies. "The internet is just really slow."

"Or your phone is really bad," Cole tells him with the blunt honesty of a kid that grew up constantly surrounded by functional technology.

"Everyone's a critic…"

Another quick search for the parents, phone lists and social media, and he's got an address. Crime Alley, of course. He brings it up on his map and enables a view of the street, holding the phone out to the boy. "Is this your house?"

Relief settles and settles over his face. "Yeah."

"What if I helped you find your way home?"

Cole makes a suspicious face. "I'm not supposed to go anywhere with strangers."

"Which is really smart. But you see, I'm not really a stranger."

"Oh yeah? Why not?"

"Well, I'll let you in on a secret." Jason bends down, conspiratorial, and Cole's eyes gleam the way any kid gets when hearing a secret. "When I was a little older than you…I was Robin."

The boy gapes. "Like…Batman and Robin?"

"Exactly."

"No way!"

"Way," Jason smirks, crossing his arms. "And I'll tell you all about it on the way to your house. Including the time that I stole the wheels off the Batmobile."

"No way!"

Despite his scandalized disbelief, the kid is obviously hooked.

Jason's heart clenches a bit at the open curiosity on Cole's face, the reality hitting him that this boy will never have a chance to do anything mischievous or fun ever again.

From one dead boy to another, this sucks…

As he leads him out of the cemetery, Jason starts to tell the little ghost about his life. He edits out the less pleasant bits, like dying and returning to life half brain dead with the ability to see and hear ghosts.

He figures a good story is the least he can do for the boy.

⁂

Red Robin crouches on a rooftop in the Bowery, watching the thief he was just interrogating scramble from the alley. He was a bit harsher than usual tonight—the full 'hang 'em by the feet' routine is more Batman's thing than his, but he's getting frustrated now.

Dante's been missing for a week now, and in this town, that's never a good sign. And if no one's seen him…

His gut and five years of stalking the night as a vigilante are telling him he shouldn't get his hopes up about finding his friend, but he can't work up the courage to stop. To just, pack up and head back to California.

Things between him and the Family are…tense.

Bruce hasn't quite been able to look at him without suspicion since the incident with Captain Boomerang and Mr. Freeze. Dick is as focussed on Damian as ever, and whatever attention he has left over has been going to mentoring Duke. Steph and Tim are in another extended "off" period of their on-and-off-again relationship, Damian is…Damian, and Cass isn't around often enough to mitigate any of that.

As much as Alfred assures him it's not the case, Tim has been feeling more and more like Gotham doesn't hold anything for him any longer.

He never thought he'd ever feel like that.

Gotham is dank and dark and terrifying, but it's home. It's gliding through the air a thousand feet up and running across rooftops and diving into trouble at the last second to save the day. It's everything he wanted when he was a kid, secretly following Batman and Robin around with a camera almost as big as he was.

But every year now, it feels like the city is a little danker, a little darker, a little more terrifying. A lot more hopeless.

Part of him thinks that hopelessness started growing following Jason Todd's murder. Tim did his best to be there for Batman, but it's been an uphill battle. And every year, the fight for Gotham's soul becomes an even bloodier war of attrition, consuming more and more innocents.

Reminded of his goal tonight, Tim decides it's time to involve himself more directly.

He rappels down to the alley floor and resigns himself to several hours of canvassing a hostile neighborhood. Though fear is an excellent motivator for some, for others a different approach is needed.

People are unlikely to tell a stranger—even a rich stranger—anything worthwhile. Especially here in the Alley, where throwing money at problems get people's backs up. There's a sense of pride down here, and an Us-versus-Them mentality that even the most destitute ascribe to.

And rich playboy sons are pretty firmly in the 'them' column; vigilantes, on the other hand, straddle the line depending on the time of day, the informant in question, and whether the stars are in position.

Tim has better luck than most here; Red Robin has been frequenting this place a lot over the years, almost from the moment he put on the cape and tights. The other capes never bothered much with it—except for Jason, who made a point of ending his patrols with a quick check of his former home when he was Robin. Tim sometimes thinks that maybe his tendency to come here is an homage to that, a way of keeping his predecessor's legacy alive.

Of course, he's never said anything like that to anyone in the family. Even years later, the grief is still too raw. If he's asked, Tim maintains that he's cultivated a careful network of spies and contacts in the Alley, and nothing more.

I mean, it's not like I can go wandering around Crime Alley in the middle of the day.

Tim Drake-Wayne's face is too recognizable, causes too much trouble. People are desperate here, might try to grab him and use him to extort money from Bruce—and he'd have to let them because he's not supposed to be able to handle himself. Bruce would come, of course, or whoever Oracle can get on the comms first, but it would mean interrupting actual crimes in progress, with actual people who are in danger.

A worse alternative would be if whoever has Dante—and Tim's sure someone has him because the guy wouldn't just vanish on his own—they might harm him. Because Tim is the adopted son of the man funding Batman, and if they think he might cause them trouble, most people willing to kidnap are also willing to murder.

All of which assumes that they haven't murdered him yet.

Tim's plan of approach hinges on the locals actually being in a helpful mood tonight, but he soon discovers that's not the case.

The stars are not in position for this investigation, he thinks with grim humor even as he ramps up the intimidation factor with every successive interrogation.

Either there's someone out there they're more afraid of, or they really don't know a thing.

It's only in the early hours of the morning when he's considering returning to his Park Row apartment in defeat, that one of the working girls finally takes pity on him.

"Watchin' you go back and forth is makin' me dizzy," Rhonda says. She's been working the corner of Park Row and Fifth since before Tim's time, and though she rarely goes out of her way to get involved with the capes, she does tend to be bluntly honest if the situation is right. "Who you lookin' for?"

"This kid. Or anyone who's seen him," he says, pitching his voice into his approximation of Bruce's Batman growl. He holds out the glossy picture he's been flashing around all night; he took it off a security camera and increased the size of. "He was working at the bodega on the corner of Parker and Main just outside the Alley."

"Kinda weird for a cape to give a shit about some kid from 'round here. Don't you freaks normally deal with the bigger freaks?"

"Have you seen him or not?"

"Who's he to you, sugar?" she asks, glancing at the picture Tim brandishes. "And don't give me no bullshit."

Tim sighs, knowing better than to test her; she's got Alfred levels of talent when it comes to lies.

"He's a friend of sorts," he explains. "Sort of…a protégé. I've been looking out for him the past few months."

Which is sort of true, though not in the way he's implying.

During WE's years board meeting to examine the various submissions for the Scholarship Program, Tim took note of an applicant whose overall qualifications were outstanding and who even on paper looked like a major boon to the company.

But the Board of Directors took one look at Dante Garcia's prior assault conviction at age twelve and decided to toss his application. Without even reading the excellent essay the guy wrote to explain the reasons he had been fighting (to defend a girlfriend from a handsy police officer with a grudge). Or how the experience made him want to become an advocate for those who couldn't afford it.

It was a brave move, being upfront about the criminal record, but likely Dante knew it wasn't exactly something he could hide. His record wouldn't be sealed until he was eighteen.

Tim tried to argue that one mistake made for good reasons shouldn't deny a bright individual the opportunity and that Dante was clearly of the same caliber as Tim, just without the last name to help him.

(He hadn't mentioned that Dante reminded him of another boy from long ago, given a second chance and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.)

He was still outvoted.

From the way the old bastards were looking at him, Tim felt sure it was more because of who he was than who Dante was.

The petty bastards never did get over the fact they have a teenager for a boss.

Despite the Board not agreeing with his vote, Tim already decided he intended to help Dante. He tracked him down to speak to him in person and get a better measure of him.

He was immediately impressed upon their first meeting, especially when he discovered how easy it was to converse with him. He has an intelligence that reminds him of Duke, but his attitude put him in mind of everything he knew about Jason.

"I'm going to figure out a way to get you a scholarship," Tim told Dante two weeks into their acquaintanceship. "Even if it's not from the Foundation, we'll figure it out. I'd be willing to hire you on at the Neon Knights if you're interested. Criminal records aren't exactly a deal-breaker there."

(Especially since most of the people working there were once part of or are in the process of escaping a gang.)

"That sort of thing will look good on a resume and open doors for you, including getting you into events and putting your name out there," Tim continued. "The Knights also sponsors educational initiatives, so you can get your general credits out of the way and eventually transfer into a college program of your choice."

Dante stared at him, suspicious. "Why you doing this, man? You don't know me from Adam."

"Because I was taken in by a man who didn't think someone's last name or financial background should be an obstacle to greatness," Tim replied honestly. "My brothers and sister came from harsh lives, but he didn't let that stop him from taking them in and trying to help them achieve their potential. They're all good people that could have gone a very different way if he didn't get involved. Because he had the ability to do so. Having influence means nothing if you don't use it to do good."

"So what's the price of this?"

"That you'll be expected to pay it forward. And you're already going to be doing that when you get your degree and start helping people. You'll have the influence. Just keep your nose clean and away from the gangs, and you have a real shot, kid."

"Excuse you, white boy, you're my age. None of that 'kid' shit with me."

Tim laughed.

It had still taken time after that to convince Dante that Tim's offer was legit, but once he decided he was trustworthy, they'd started hanging out more. What started with Tim sponsoring a student with huge potential turned into an actual friendship—and he didn't have many of those with people who weren't in the caped community. There was something about that he wanted to protect.

When Dante's mother called him one day in tears, explaining that Dante had never come home from work and the police wouldn't let her file a missing person's report until 48 hours had passed, Tim didn't hesitate to get involved.

At first, he'd worried that Dante's disappearance was due to the vigilante connection—had someone discovered his identity and then decided to use his friend as leverage? The likelihood of that was low, however; anyone who did know his identity would come at him more directly, or at least have contacted him with an actual threat.

Which meant what happened to Dante wasn't vigilante related, but simply bad luck.

That doesn't make Tim any less intent on figuring out what happened.

His thoughts must be projecting through his body language somehow because Rhonda's usually sharp eyes soften a bit and she sighs. Looking around, she ensures there's no one nearby, and then says, "You need to talk to Salvatore."

"Who?"

"He's a pimp, hangs out down the corner. He hooks, too, which ain't too common. Does it because he likes it," she says, making a disgusted face. "He tends to be the guy that's always the last person to see someone before they go missin', if you know what I mean?"

"You think he's involved?"

"Nah, he's too paranoid to do that. Likes to keep his hands clean or pretend to. But he's right near where your friend disappeared. And…" She hesitates here, sizing Tim up, and then nods to herself, "He's got a rep. Lures new boys on the street into the business. He's got a scary success rate at it, too." She shivers. "Makes sense, he's a scary motherfucker. Lots of his kids go missin', but he always has some excuse. Letters and texts and shit provin' they left the city or somethin'. No one knows how he does it, so you get him to talk, you might find out what you want to know. But I don't see it happenin'."

"Still. Thanks for the information," Tim says and digs into his belt for a wad of cash. To his surprise, Rhonda shakes her head.

"Anyone sees me takin' that from you right before you go after Salvatore, they'll know I talked. No one'll think I'd be stupid enough to give anything up for free. You come back a few days after you deal with that bastard, I'll take it then."

"That's oddly trusting for someone like you."

"Honey, you've been watchin' these streets long enough I know you're good for it. And catch me or anyone else ever telling you jack shit ever again if you stiff me."

Tim snorts. "Fair enough. What's this guy look like so I can find him?"

"Trust me, you'll know him when you see him. Just don't tell that creep anything 'bout me sendin' you in his direction."

She doesn't wait for his answer before sashaying away, returning to her activities for the night.

Tim keeps to the shadows as he heads to the corner Rhonda indicated, thinking he might have to wait around for a few hours—or even return the next night—if he's going to find his next suspect.

It turns out he doesn't need to.

A man who can only be Salvatore is leaning against the wall at the mouth of an alley, fiddling with his very expensive looking phone.

He is a tall, muscular, almost impossibly good-looking man with high cheekbones, intense blue eyes, and a full, cruel mouth. He's dressed in leather and silk that might as well be painted on. There's something in a way that mouth lifts at the corners that makes Tim's stomach thud, memories of a similar grin and devil-may-care laugh he only ever got to see through the lens of a camera or across a crowded reception room.

But this isn't him. This guy looks more like a crocodile than a robin.

"Well, hello there, handsome," the man purrs when Tim materializes beside him, eyes flicking up and down Tim's form with a look that does nothing to dispel the predatory image. "Looking for a pick-me-up after a hard night's work?"

Tim ignores the innuendo dripping in the man's voice.

"I've been given the impression you've seen this boy," Tim says coolly, holding up his photo. "That you were the last one to see him. I need to know what you know."

"I'm sure you do, baby, but I don't come cheap, and neither does anything that comes out of my mouth," Salvatore drawls.

Tim shrugs; if it's money he wants, that's not a problem. "I'm sure we could come to an arrangement."

"Oh, I know we can," Salvatore chuckles. "But not here." His eyes flick around like he's scoping out someone watching; his irises flicker eerily in the dim streetlight. "Not where someone might see us talking. I could lose customers for talking to a mask—and I'm all about discretion."

"They're already seeing us talking."

"And as far as they know, you're just asking about the price of the goods," Salvatore purrs, moving so slowly as to telegraph his moves and stroking his fingers across Tim's chest plate, and down. "Can't imagine seeking justice satisfies all your urges, does it, little bird?"

Tim's hand snaps upward, clamping around Salvatore's wrist and exerting just enough pressure to earn and choked gasp of pain. "I am here for information. Nothing more, nothing less. Either you tell me what I want to know, and I compensate you, or you tell me what I want to know and leave here with a bunch of bruises that will affect your bottom line. Assuming I don't drag you to the nearest precinct in handcuffs."

"Baby, I'm almost tempted to take you up on that," Salvatore says, licking his lips. "But I also know there's worse on the streets than me. Who knows what your friend might have stumbled into?"

Tim's jaw clenches. "Meaning?"

"Meaning we're doing this little info exchange my way, and that involves not being out in the open. This is private business, after all."

This time Tim's nose curls, sensing an implication there. Either this guy's not too bright, practically broadcasting his intentions to a vigilante, or he knows something important enough he thinks Tim will do anything for it.

Tim considers him, trying to evaluate how he wants to play this. Obviously, he doesn't trust Salvatore, but he needs information even if it's the vaguest of statements.

The older man is clearly unarmed—no weapon's hiding anywhere with that little clothing. And Tim was trained by Batman and Lady Shiva.

Buddy, aren't you in for a surprise.

"Fine," Tim says. "Lead the way."

Salvatore's pupils dilate, once again catching the dim light in a manner that makes them seem like they reflect.

Then he jerks his head toward the dark, shadowy alley behind him.

Against every instinct of self-preservation that managed to survive the brilliant idea of a twelve-year-old becoming a vigilante, Tim follows.

⁂

It's another two hours before Jason returns to the East End. It had taken all his concentration to keep Cole's ghost focussed on him and his stories, instead of whatever unnamed force might tempt him back to gravesite. After the boy vanishes in the gradual, whispering way spirits do when their unfinished business if met, Jason doubled over at the sudden migraine.

He much prefers when unfinished business can be completed in one place instead of having to carry a phantom passenger with him.

Being tired—and now that he thinks about it, hungry—does not help his bad mood.

Another kid. Another victim of the fucking Joker.

Just how many more kids is the nutcase going to take out? How many more Robins? Because Jason's seen pictures of the new kid—blurry and imprecise as anything to be found in a Gotham tabloid, but enough for someone with an eye for it to judge some facts—and he's fucking tiny. It doesn't matter that the girls in the Bowery where Jason lives say he's meaner and more dangerous than any of the others. He's smaller than Jason's replacement—smaller than that girl even. What the hell is Bruce thinking?

Again, the temptation rises within him to hightail it over to the manor without warning and rip Bruce a series of new ones while he's too busy gaping in shock to defend himself.

He doesn't, though.

Knowing Bruce, he'd think it was a trick and beat the snot out of Jason, then stick him in a cell somewhere until he could confirm his identity. Jason's been behind the door of enough cells to last him a lifetime, and that alone holds him back.

And who's to say he doesn't blame me for getting myself killed in the first place?

He knows that's not likely, somewhere deeply buried inside, but it's hard to shake the idea. Old insecurities return in full, memories of pity and concern and frustration, and his final moment waiting for his father to save him and being disappointed.

And then being disappointed again when his wits returned to him and he discovered the Joker was still breathing. That Bruce didn't deal with it—didn't kill the fucker that killed Jason and shot Barbara.

He remembers that horrible week, wondering if she was going to live or die, and then being told she'd never walk again. Vibrant, ass-kicking and beautiful Batgirl with her wings forever clipped. In a way, he thinks he's angrier about Barbara than himself. As Robin, he was always going to be a direct target of the Joker; Barbara wasn't shot and tortured because she was Batgirl—she was shot and tortured because she was Commissioner Gordon's daughter.

And after all that, Bruce just put the bastard back in Arkham, where he could have a taxpayer-paid vacation then break himself out again whenever he felt like it.

Something needs to be done about him, and B's sure as fuck not going to do it.

With every step, Jason finds himself getting a little angrier. It's a cool rage, different from the volatile mess of hormones and emotions he was as a kid, but it's still there. Say what you want for the brain damage, but he was so out of it that it's probably why John's meditation techniques took when Bruce's didn't, tempering him.

He's still prone to rash action, of course, but for something like this—something as serious as the Joker—he's going to have to think it through. Somehow, he doubts it's just going to be as easy as walking into the asylum and shivving the guy. And Jason's not exactly keen on getting arrested, not after he worked his ass off to set himself up with an identity and a job and everything here in Gotham.

It bears thinking about, and he can't do anything immediate about it now, so he'll sleep on it. Something will come to him.

Jason turns the corner, intending to do just that as he heads for his apartment.

Well, it's not really an apartment. It's more office space over a bar on the border of Crime Alley and the Bowery. It's just cheaper to rent an office than an apartment these days; with housing costs soaring, even property in the worst parts of Gotham are wildly out of his price range.

(He's not a billionaire's son anymore.)

Might stay out of my price range for a while. PIs don't make much, to begin with, and my niche is kind of…specific.

Mediumship isn't exactly a lucrative business, nor is paranormal investigation. Both jobs attract the crazies, but he knows from experience the ones who are legit will pay good money for his services.

Still, the whole set-up isn't so bad.

He's been getting his food from the local bodegas and the bar downstairs, and he's sure after a bit of saving he'll even be able to go out to the occasional sit-down restaurant when he gets a craving for something gourmet-ish

(He doesn't think about how Alfred could whip up a do that would put the Cordon Bleu to shame).

Jason sprung for a decent quality foldable futon, so it's not like he's kipping on the floor and the office even has a bathroom with a shower, which was a big plus when his landlady, Trista, showed it to him. The ambulance chaser who occupied the space before him said he used to work a lot and needed to be able to shower between jobs. He'd also said if he hadn't been so keyed into his job, he'd have noticed his life falling apart around him and not shot himself three months ago.

Yeah, that was a fun one…

Since helping the previous owner move on and then taking up residence in the cramped office space, Jason's made a point of warding the entire office against any other wandering spirits.

I happen to have very strict office hours, ta very much.

He pauses on the street leading to his place, his stomach growling again, and decides he'll head into the bar for a pick-me-up beforehand. Trista, who also owns that place, doesn't offer a lot in the way of food, but what she does is pretty good. Hers is the only place he's been so far that can make decent fish and chips.

As he heads in that direction, he notices a familiar face standing on the corner across the street. He decides to make a quick detour.

"Rhonda," he says with a grin, "you're lookin' especially gorgeous tonight."

"Boy, I don't need you to tell me shit I already know," the woman tells him with a sniff. "And if you're cruisin' for a lay, I'll tell you what I always tell you—you too young."

"You've been tellin' me that since I was twelve," he grins.

Rhonda is the only person here in Gotham that knows he's back, and that's only because she vrecognized him one night while he was heading back from a job. When he first landed himself on the streets as a kid, Rhonda was one of the girls who kept an eye out for him and whatever other orphan was wandering around here at the time. After he was adopted by Bruce, he made a point of checking up on her as Robin, chasing off johns that tried to get over her time (even though she was already pretty good at managing that herself) and buying her food whenever he could. He never expected her to still be here when he got back, but she'd taken one look at him and cursed.

"I knew that story about you bein' dead was bullshit," she informed him as she took a drag of a cigarette. "What you do, run off on the rich man or some shit? He been tellin' everyone you're dead for years now."

"To him, I am dead," he'd replied, not wanting to go into it. "And everyone else better keep thinkin' that too."

"Ain't gonna hear it from me," she'd shrugged. "But why the fuck did you come back to this shithole?"

"Home's home," he had shrugged, and she'd nodded because she knew exactly what he was talking about.

Now, she sizes him up and considers his face. "Rough night, it looks like. You gettin' in trouble again?"

"Nah, just exorcisin' some…personal demons. Quiet night for you?"

"Mostly. There was a cape around couple minutes ago, though, so stay outta trouble."

She knows he tends to avoid them.

Jason raises an eyebrow. "Which one?"

Christ, I hope it wasn't Batman or Robin. Don't think I could take seeing either of them tonight.

"It was Red. Came through to ask some questions."

It takes him a moment to connect the name to the roster of vigilante's he made himself memorize before coming back here. Red Robin is the one he suspects used to be his replacement, probably got graduated or replaced himself when the newest brat was put in the boots.

"He came here?" Jason asks. "Why?"

"Usual mask thing, comin' down here to talk to the little people who might've seen somethin'."

Jason makes a thoughtful noise, a bit impressed. He was always the only one who bothered canvassing Crime Alley; once Batman started getting more invested in Gotham's more insane rogues, he stopped having time for this place.

"Red's good people," Rhonda says then, looking like she's considering something. "He's the only one that tries with us. Pays good money, buys food—sorta like that scrappy Robin used to." She winks at him—they've never put it into words, but Jason's pretty sure she knows about his time as Robin, too. "And you know he's doin' it on purpose, 'cause when he's around the city, Red usually sticks to Chinatown or Tricorner. That's what the news say, anyway."

Jason is again surprised. "Definitely goin' out of his way then."

"Hm."

He thinks about it a further minute and then shrugs. "Anything else interesting happening tonight? You need anything?"

"Yeah, for you to get off my corner so I can get to work," Rhonda retorts. "Unlike you, I don't like livin' off bar food. Gotta be careful what you put in the temple, hear?"

"I dunno, give me a chili dog any day…"

Jason chuckles as she shoes him away, and then continues his way to the bar. Maybe he'll pick up something to go—

Just as he's about to step into Trista's bar, the hair on the back of his neck stands on end, and he feels a minor flicker of vertigo.

Something's off.

Turning back to the street, he casts his eyes about, looking for anything out of ordinary to explain the sudden unease. Something nags at him, something that feels…hungry almost.

Since his senses are only attuned to the spirit of the dead, a hungry presence is never a good sign. Ghosts can sometimes become so enraged over their deaths, so tied to the mortal realm, that they become psychic vampires, attaching themselves to the living and feeding like parasites until a person drops from exhaustion.

Fuck. Can't leave one of those wandering around, if that's what this is.

He gives an irritated groan and walks away from the bar, turning his focus on tracking the sensation. It's not exactly calling out to him personally, but it's still present enough for him to notice.

Jason digs into his pocket, winding his prayer beads around his wrist and checking if he's still got any iron on him. Nothing big enough to make much difference, but for distraction if it comes to it.

As he reaches the end of the block, Jason catches sight of the cape first.

Damn, I don't miss the days of having to wear gear like that.

Because that cowl thing the vigilante is sporting is almost as much a tragedy as the green leotard Jason used to sport (they weren't panties, fuck you very much, they just looked that way—as if Alfred would allow someone to go outside the house in just their underwear). And the cape is so thick it gives him no idea as to the stature or body behind it.

At least this Red Robin guy is smart enough to have a full body-armor suit instead of pixie-boots and a t-shirt.

Might be the only thing he's smart about, judging by his company.

The too-perfect-looking young man that beckons the vigilante to follow him into the alleyway is all cold blue eyes, sharp smile, and sleek movement. And even if Jason couldn't read the malevolent aura emanating from the direction of the two men (and that's a doozy, especially if it's coming from only one individual), he's seen that look before in eyes just as cold.

He knows the tactics of an incubus seeking its next meal, and this one seems to have decided it has a taste for vigilante tonight.

This isn't really Jason's thing—incubi are low-level demons, more John's area of expertise than his. Getting involved would mean willingly crossing paths with one of Gotham's masks, which he's been taking pains not to do since returning.

But he's also not allowing any kind of unrestrained feeding and killing to happen on his turf. And these darkest, dingiest parts of Gotham have always been his. Even when he was trailing after the big Bat.

Plus, this guy is Red Robin.

Jason hasn't had any interest in the growing number of masks cropping up in Gotham over the years, but this guy's obviously a bird. Which means Jason has a kind of personal connection to him. Call it brothers-in-arms or something poetic like that, even if they've never met.

Also, the way incubi feed…no one deserves to have that happen to them, especially in a filthy alley like this one. Jason's always had concern over consent issues, and with incubi, the way they get that consent literally straddles the line far too closely for his taste. This Red Robin might be Bat-trained, but unless he's taken a master class in the occult (doubtful, considering Bruce's distrust of anything resembling magic), he's being led away like a lamb to the slaughter.

Probably he's already been ensnared by the thing's powers and doesn't even realize it. Like a baby bird in front of a snake.

Jason sighs in defeat and rolls his shoulders in preparation for what he knows is going to be an unpleasant interlude.

"Time to be a hero," he mutters to himself and stalks toward the shadowy alley where the two figures have disappeared.

⁂

Tim may have miscalculated.

Under normal circumstances, his plan would be no big deal for him to recalibrate; thinking on one's feet is part of being a Bat, after all. And it's not like he doesn't have assets.

The alleyway, though dark, is broad and not filled with cumbersome obstacles that would impede fighting in close quarters. There's enough shadow for him to disappear into if need be, and if he were unable to reach for the tools in his utility belt or bandolier, he would easily find makeshift weapons—shards of glass from a broken mirror or loose bricks.

He's just having a little trouble concentrating.

Actually, he's having a lot of trouble concentrating and worse, trying to get his body to do anything he wants it to right now.

Almost the minute he stepped into the alleyway Tim felt a heaviness settled into his bones.

He'd shaken it off as a random bout of exhaustion—the kind that creeps up on him frequently, especially when he hasn't slept properly in a few nights—but this one didn't go away. He can't seem to push it back or ignore it just enough to regain his wits.

And now Salvatore is moving directly into his personal space, too close for comfort, Tim should be lashing out to stop his advance. A blow to the chest, a twist of his wrist to bring him down to his knees.

But he finds he can't.

His arms and legs are like lead weights by his side, too heavy to maneuver.

Then Salvatore is reaching out to him, tipping two fingers under his chin and stroking the skin there. Tim shivers, in disgust and at how cold the other man's skin is.

"There now, isn't this cozy?" the other man purrs.

Tim's heart begins to beat faster, and he mistakes it as adrenaline at first, a reaction to his immobility and the danger of the situation. But the way his cheeks flood with warmth and the way his suit suddenly feels too tight tell him it's something else.

"It could be cozier," Salvatore continues thoughtfully, tracing Tim's jaw. "What do you say, baby? Take off that ugly hood and show off the pretty cheekbones I know you have."

"What…are you doing…to me?" Tim growls as he struggles against the immediate compulsion to do as the other man says. He can't keep his hands from moving toward his face, though they do so slowly, trembling as he tries to hold back.

"Not anything you don't want me to, I'm sure."

"I…really…don't…"

"That's because you don't know what you're missing. Now, let me see what I have to work with."

The cowl is off, hanging heavily against his back. Tim is barely able to keep himself from releasing his domino mask as well, if only because Salvatore didn't specifically ask for it. Whatever this compulsion is caused by, it allows for loopholes—though he doesn't know how much longer that's going to last.

How is Salvatore doing this? He barely suggested it and Tim's completely susceptible to him, to the point where his training is like a distant memory. The entire situation reminds him of being under the influence of Poison Ivy's concoctions, but somehow different. Where hers focus on achieving biochemical responses or altering hormones, this is different; it feels like something is being drawn out of him on a deeper level.

"Oh, I was right. You Bats all look so edible from a distance, but it's even better up close."

Tim's brain scrambles for a plan, trying to buy himself time. If he could just make the smallest movement, he could activate his comm to call for help.

His fingers remain stiff and uncooperating.

"Metahuman," he accuses.

Salvatore pauses, looking offended for a moment. "I'm no such thing. Nothing so new and crude."

"Is this…what you did to Dante?"

"Who? Oh. The one in the picture. No, I didn't play with your little friend. He wasn't really my type. Too…pure. But you?" His uncanny eyes rake over Tim again. "Mmmm."

"But you know…who did…take him?"

"No idea. I already told you there are worse things than me out there. At least I'm just acting according to my nature—the real monsters out there are the ones that make themselves." He grins, and it somehow seems like he has too many teeth. "Now stop asking me questions, pretty boy, and behave yourself." His hand slithers up Tim's arm and over his shoulder. "I promise to make it good for you—it just tastes so much better when willingly given."

And it's like Tim's protests die in his throat, the fight draining out of him with every passing second and every inch closer that Salvatore moves. He casts his eyes around, trying to find anything he might use for a weapon if he could just reach for it—

Instead, he catches sight of movement. For a moment feels a burst of hope, until he understands it's just Salvatore's reflection on the broken mirror. That disappointment morphs quickly into horror when he realizes he's not seeing the enticing young man in front of him reflected there.

Instead, a hairless, gray and vaguely humanoid shape leans over Tim's reflection. Its facial features are inhuman, cold black eyes with a reflective tint and an open, gaping mouth like a Sarlacc pit.

It takes every bit of effort he has to try to pull backward, away from the approaching…thing. Even as he knows there's no stopping him, that he can't even twitch his fingers enough to engage the taster in his suit.

He's going to have to wait until the creature comes into actual physical contact with him, press him up against the electric panel in his chest to throw him off.

Bile rises in his throat at that thought, yet as Salvatore leans into him, lowering his mouth to Tim and bringing an overwhelming scent of sickly-sweet rot, his consciousness begins to ebb away, lulled into a dreamy haze.

Maybe…maybe it won't be so…bad…

And then suddenly Salvatore is being hauled off of him, sending Tim falling to his knees when the creature's compulsion no longer able to hold him up.

"You know, usually I avoid your kind, since I'm not so great with the fleshy side of ugly," a voice declares from the mouth of the cave, shattering the overwhelming tension, "but there's someone big and brooding goin' to take exception to this guy going missin' or dead."

Salvatore reacts like an angry cat, hissing violently at the newcomer.

Tim has the impression of red hair and a leather jacket, but that's it as he struggles to regain control of his faculties; the hazy sensation is slow to ebb away. The quick withdrawal of whatever was keeping him in thrall retracts as abruptly as a snapping elastic, forcing a kind of whiplash feeling.

Immediately, his stomach revolts and he can't hold back from vomiting on the ground.

"I get you're just doin' what you do, and all," the stranger continues to talk, a taunting edge in his voice, "but there are a lot of people out there with self-esteem issues and no self-respect who'd be more than happy to give you what you want. This guy? Doesn't look as into it as you are. I mean, you had to pull the mojo out on him right away…"

"Maldito hijo de puta," Salvatore spits.

The stranger snorts. "That's a bit personal, don't you think?"

"Take a hike, filth," Salvatore snarls. "I don't care what you think you know, you're not ready to tangle with me."

"Oh, well, now I've got to stay."

"I won't waste my time with foreplay, then."

And Salvatore takes a running leap at Leather Jacket, hauling his hand back as if to punch him. Except his fingers are open and curled and sharpening—

Leather Jacket swears as he ducks backward, the creature's claws raking down the front of his chest. He staggers backward.

"You want to walk away," Salvatore orders coldly. "Walk into traffic."

Leather Jacket falters a moment and then laughs. "You really think I'd have come at you if I didn't have protection against your stupid hypno-crap?"

Salvatore makes a shocked noise, which is cut off when a fist hits his face. He reels backward a few feet.

Wiping his mouth, Tim tugs his cowl back up over his face with trembling hands, needing to regain that sense of anonymity and disguise the effect all this has had on him. It's all he can manage right now, his legs still wobbling like jelly. There's no way he can get up right now and throw himself into the fray.

The stranger pulls something out from beneath his jacket pocket as Salvatore recovers and goes to make another move. Tim recognizes the shape of a gun.

"You know that won't kill me," Salvatore sneers.

"Do I?" the man replies and pulls the trigger.

"No!" Tim cries; too late.

Wounds open on Salvatore's shoulder, making him snarl in pain and fury as his body jerks backward with the force of it. But instead of falling to the ground, blood spurting from the injuries, he remains standing; the wound begins to smoke.

"You're right, it won't kill you," Leather Jacket agrees as Salvatore gnashes his teeth. "But it will take you a few hours to heal. Who knows what I could do to you in that time?"

Salvatore growls and lunges forward again, and Leather Jacket fires two more precise shots, this time to his knees. Now it's Salvatore on his knees, panting in pain.

"That was warning number two," Leather Jacket tells him coolly. "Want to go for a third?"

Tim senses the exact moment when the fight goes out of Salvatore's body. The next time he moves, it's angling his body away from Leather Jacket, using a wall to pull himself upward.

"Now, bugger off while I'm feeling merciful," Leather Jacket growls. "And stay the hell out of Crime Alley. Try the Diamond District for your hunting grounds—you'll fit right in with all the other parasites."

The injured Salvatore gives another hiss, cradling his wounded shoulder, but thinks better of taking another run at his opponent. Instead, he turns about and limps off at a run.

Leather Jacket snorts at the sight, shaking his head.

Tim still needs to lean against the wall to steady himself, his stomach continuing to swoop angrily. As the fog in his head retreats, it's with a swirling, withdrawing sensation that has him seeing spots.

He should probably thank the guy who saved him, even if it's embarrassing, he needed to be saved, but he can't unstick his tongue.

"Is this a new thing for you lot?" the stranger asks. "Comin' down here to work the streets, getting' picked up and almost eaten by suspicious strangers? I mean, it's a step down from tanglin' with Two-Face, ain't it?" The sardonic tone hardens on the name, cold seeping in. "You're welcome, by the way."

Well, if Tim was going to thank him, now he's not. He deals with enough entitlement from the old fogies in the WE boardroom, he doesn't have the patience to deal with it during his night job. Instead, he tries to unpack everything that just happened.

"How did you know?" he asks, tongue still heavy in his mouth. He's not sure if he's asking about how he knew to come down here, how he knew what Salvatore was trying to do—how he knew how to fight the creature off.

"Seen his kind around. Didn't always know what they were, but once you've tangled with one incubus, the rest is pretty easy."

Tim finally manages to straighten up under his own power, but still can't see the man's face. The way he's standing, the light from the road behind them casts dark shadows across his features.

"Who are you?"

"None of your business." The man digs into his pocket for something and hauls out a carton of cigarettes. He considers them a moment, then holds one out. "Need something to ground you?"

"No."

He shrugs, lights up; the spark of the flame isn't enough to uncover his features, but Tim senses a judgemental glance being thrown his way. "You sure you should be wearin' that cape if you can't take care of yourself?"

Tim scowls at that. "I'm having an off day."

"That's puttin' it lightly."

Tim's head is finally starting to clear, his focus returning; he catalogs what he can about the stranger

Tall and muscular; built like Bruce, though thicker in the thighs than the shoulders; scarred hands—a fighter—boots scuffed with black earth; that's rare in the city. Wandering around somewhere with lots of soil and earth? And the way he speaks…Tim detects a foreign lilt on the edges of his words. Non-rhotic postvocalic consonants.

At first, it sounds like he's from around here, except…it blends with something else. Sort of sounds like when Alfred goes full-on-West London when he phones anyone from England.

So, this guy maybe spent some time there.

Squinting he notes the cigarette package as it disappears into the man's pocket.

Silk Cut. Definitely spent time in the UK then.

And whatever he just fought; it wasn't human—but not a meta. Which by process of elimination usually means magic.

Tim flips through his mental catalog, trying to narrow down which major player this guy could be working with, rogue or hero; the cigarette brand triggers something from a file memorized years ago, quirks and data about enemies, allies, and undecideds. One name stands out.

"Constantine," he says after a moment. "You work with Constantine."

The man is pretty good at hiding his surprise, but Tim senses the minute stiffening of his shoulders. It's gone a beat later, smoothed into the man's deceptively languid posture. "Guess I owe him a pint; didn't think he'd made much of an impression when he was last here."

"You shouldn't be in Gotham," Tim growls, trying to regain some imposing authority following tonight's fiasco. "And you definitely shouldn't be interrupting my interrogation."

"Interrogation? More like succumbin' to a supernatural roofie. What were you going to do, snore at it?"

Tim clenches his fists.

"I had it under control. If he got close enough, the chest panel in my suit is equipped with a taser. It activates if my vitals experience a sudden, sharp change."

"Then you seriously don't understand what you were up against if you think your little Bat-issue toys were going to do anythin'. That was an incubus that had you, and you were gonna get a lot less information and a lot more dead if I hadn't stepped in. So. Again…you're welcome."

"Because of you I lost my best lead tonight," Tim shoots back.

"Right. Mission comes first, even at the expense of your own life," the stranger deadpans. "How could I forget that."

And that sentence should be Tim's first clue that all is not what it seems to be, but his brain is still rebooting from whatever Salvatore did to it and he's fighting off growing frustration.

Not only did he screw up his investigation, but a civilian—typical or not—had to jump in and save him.

Tim straightens up.

Fixing the most unimpressed glare he can muster from beneath his cowl, he faces the interloper, ready to deliver a cool quip before he grapples away.

(Drama is not just for Bruce Wayne if the occasion calls for it.)

But when he finally gets a good look at his savior, every word in every language he has ever known vanishes.

Because Tim knows that face.

Even if it's a little harder now, stubbled and scarred, and lacking the unblemished, boyish roundness of childhood, Tim Drake could never forget the face of Jason Todd.

⁂⁂⁂

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